


In Which John and Sherlock Eat Chinese

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF!John is the best John, M/M, Sherlock naturally agrees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:09:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John share their second meal (and Sherlock actually eats this time).</p><p>(Can be read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which John and Sherlock Eat Chinese

_Sherlock:_

We're at my favorite Chinese, the one on Baker Street (roughly 12 percent of the reason I chose to rent from Mrs. Hudson in the first place), and John keeps looking up at me and smiling. Nobody looks at me like that, like we share a secret and there's pleasure to be had in the sharing.

John: my new flatmate. I've just had the pleasure of allowing him to take a life on my behalf without legal repercussion. Of course, as John says, the person he killed "wasn't a very good man", but I still find it incredibly intriguing. How many lives has John taken that he can happily munch on shrimp dumplings and fried rice as a body grows cold in the morgue at his hands? Ordinary people tend to have qualms about that sort of thing, in my experience. His nonchalance, in contrast, is fascinating. It reminds me in some small way of myself.

"John Watson," I say, leaning back. I've eaten three and three-quarters dumplings and a small pile of white rice, which I find sufficient, but there's something very satisfying about watching John eat. "Invalided home from the war, but still in camouflage…and still fighting."

Around his food, he asks, "What do you mean? About the camo?"

"The oatmeal-coloured jumper." I've leaned forward again, completely engaged in my deduction. "Cheap jeans, dull shoes, unpretentious black coat. It's all so  _unassuming_. Even your stature, your haircut, the tidiness of your fingernails…everything about you says 'forget me, let me fade into the background'. Camouflage. And it's  _good_ camouflage, at that." I'm genuinely smiling when I say, "Even I was nearly taken in by it."

And there it is again: the wonder and approval in his eyes, the authentic crinkles around his eyes when he smiles. Wiping his mouth, John says, "I can't say it was as calculated as all that-"

"No, of course not," I agree. "Soldier's habit. You want to blend in, you want to be able to move unseen. There's a wide gap between being threatening and being dangerous. You're not threatening in the least." I put my palms together and smile against my index fingers. "But you  _are_  capable of being dangerous."

Amazing. The man actually looks flattered. He smiles down at his food and punctures the last dumpling with a satisfied sigh, bringing it to his mouth before pausing and saying, "Thank you, Sherlock. For, well…all of this." Chewing contentedly, he adds, "I'm starting to feel like myself again, believe it or not."

I give a slight nod and pluck one of the fortune cookies from the table. John follows suit, unwrapping his quickly and snapping it open. Pulling out the little strip of paper (cheap, machine cut, and actually from China- unlike the cookie itself, which was baked and packaged here in London) he reads aloud: "There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before." Beaming at me, John chuckles, "Not bloody likely!"

Smiling in turn, I crack mine open as well. Usually I simply toss the slip out (I understand they serve some sentimental purpose; however, I am highly dubious of mass-produced advice handed out by after-dinner treats) but John is looking at me expectantly, so instead I read, "You will meet an interesting stranger." I look up at John and he shakes his head, fighting a smile, as I quirk an eyebrow and pocket the slip. An interesting stranger, indeed.


End file.
